Hillstone Group. Ever since moving to L.A. I had heard the name reverberate from the mouths of guests and co-workers like some whisper of the mythological wendigo in the shrill winds of dark summer forest nights. Did you hear that? I think I just heard something. Hillstone, Hillstone…Did you hear that?

Yes, Hillstone is the legendary corporate restaurant group where consistency reigns supreme. People flock there for this reason as well as their attention to impeccable service, cleanliness, and decor. A sparkling reputation abounds from the mouths of people who eat in a Hillstone joint which are strategically peppered all over the city like bastions of quality. There are 14 of the suckers in California, dozens in other states but a meager four in L.A. proper (counting Santa Monica). These would be Hillstone and R&D Kitchen in Santa Monica and Honor Bar and South Beverly Grill in Beverly Hills, but many more establishments are sprinkled around areas like Pasadena, Newport Beach, etc. Basically you can throw a rock and hit one if you’re in a nice neighborhood. It was the Beverly Hills stalwart I attended most recently, on this past Father’s day.

Heres the stage: Lunch date on the one day out of the year I do just a little less, just me and my beautiful lady and a couple of hours of peace away from our two small demon children. Yes, we love them but have no nannies or real help from grandparents. My toddler son now deep in his questioning everything phase and my tiny baby daughter in her no sleeping phase. This combo has left me and the missus in tatters, our nervous systems fried by a crying baby in the middle of the night and a young boy who is currently finding his voice in all matters of autonomy.

So we found a way to claw out two hours for lunch and the cool part was that Jo made it a surprise, so I had no idea where we would be going.

-Somewhere I have been before? I asked in the days leading up.

-No, she said.

-Prince approved?

-Yes.

-Bestia?

-No.

-Close to our place?

-Adjacent neighborhood. Not far.

-Saffies?

-No. Is that Prince approved?

-Yes.

-Huh. Still in business?

-Very much so.

The real trick here was that I ate out literally nowhere, at least not in nice restaurants. In & Out didn’t count. So, anywhere would be a fun change to a life dedicated to seven days of dawn to dusk toil with my young ones. Mornings with my children and afternoons with the millennials who work at Rustic.

My big day came, and of course, the universe did the best it could to try and ruin it in the form of sick kids and a babysitter who had a personal crisis. Our baby girl also howled it up around 1 a.m. that previous night and took no other answer than yes when it came to having a snooze on the couch with daddy until the wee hours of the morning. My own sleep was zilch because I was worried my fat ass would roll over onto her.

In these situations you soldier on and quaff enough coffee to kill a large dog, but the Herculean amounts of java did nothing for me save an extra facial tick or two. Ok, it brought me to baseline which is grumpy and half awake as opposed to unbearable and sleepy with a raging caffeine withdrawal headache.

I was cooked, Jo was cooked, but we still found a way to get there, because as parents you dedicate your lives to raising children and get no time for yourselves. You become strangers. Ships in the night. You need some outlet to escape the burdens you have created with your own desires to remind yourselves where that desire came from in the first place.

There she was, my girl in a summer dress, heeled slingbacks a clacking on the slate tiled floor of our garden atrium as we awaited the elevator. I marveled that she still loved me, this blonde goddess who had carried and bore our two children. They had nothing of her gentle sweetness and all their daddy’s crankiness and mischievous urges. A good pinch of rage completed the genetic pie. They were gorgeous, marvelous, new reasons to live, the only reasons to live, but also sucked the very marrow from our bones like cute hyenas.

We arrived and somehow found parking right in front. Karma if I ever saw it. I was elated. Here we were, The South Beverly Grill. A marvelous facade. No homeless sprinkled around the entrance like the gritty post apocalyptic sci fimovie most of the other neighborhoods of L.A. portrayed. No trash blowing in the streets. No graffiti to be seen anywhere. This was where you went to escape.

The interior reminded me of how an old style restaurant felt when I was a kid. Dark polished wood. Extremely busy. Glasses clinking. Bartenders shaking it up. Rugs. No restaurant had rugs anymore. There was the lit bar with its dozen or so vodka choices. I did catch a certain smell I had trouble locating within the cobwebbed memory banks. Each restaurant has its own smell and this was…A certain faux mahogany doing its damndest best to conceal fish. The casual punter would take no notice but I prided myself in my Roman sniffer.

Right away I thought of South Beverly Grill as the direct opposite of my beloved Rustic Canyon, a dilapidated and worn, comfortable leather shoe with lots of character that no one had bothered to polish in a long time.

I saw a man wearing shorts, and another. I gave Jo a look. She told me there was a dress code and I had to wear pants. I hate pants, I hate em, Jacques. The only reason to live in the cesspool of Los Angeles is to wear shorts all year round.

Anyway, Jo began to point out to me why a Hillstone restaurant was so different from any other.

-Everyone is good looking and polished, do you see? She said.

The staff was polished and good looking. White teeth. Big smiles all around that sort of felt somewhat real despite the corporate backbone.

-They must make good money here, I said.

We sat at a voluminous table with a ninety degree booth deal. It could accommodate four by sitting two others in chairs in the server lanes, but a deuce was perfect. Nice and cozy. This was all part of the Hillstone guidelines where, as a restaurant lifer or not a total moron, if you read between the lines a little bit, you will give yourself a little chuckle. Check em out:

Dining Guidelines & Attire Standards

Attire Standards

• Guest attire can elevate or diminish the experience of others. We consider hats, tank tops, flip flops, and team athletic attire too casual for our restaurants. Our staff takes pride in their appearance and we ask our guests to respect our attire guidelines.

i.e.: Don’t be a slob.

Dining Guidelines

• Cashless payment preferred. In many locations, cash is not accepted to mitigate risk and to enhance safety. We recommend checking individual restaurant pages for this information.
• Our restaurants are not intended for large groups and we prefer more intimate experiences serving parties of two. Please know that our ability to accommodate parties larger than four is very limited.

i.e.: Two tops typically spend more per person and hang out less.

• Our restaurants are generally not the best environment for young children. We welcome families, but we ask parents to keep children at the table and calm vocal infants or youngsters outside of the dining room. We do not offer child seating nor do we allow strollers in the dining room.

i.e.: No kids.

• While we consider special requests, modifications are not always possible as they can impact the focus of the kitchen and the integrity of many dishes.

i.e.: Take your annoying fake allergies somewhere else, please.

• Please notify us of any allergies as the ingredients listed on the menu are abbreviated.

i.e.: Menu options are available for real allergies.

• To minimize distractions to other guests, please take cell phone conversations out of seated areas, set devices to silent, and limit the use of laptops or tablets.

i.e.: Don’t be an inconsiderate shithead.

God, I love all of this. No kiddie bullshit, no alterations to dishes, no obnoxious cell phones, no large parties. All instruction laid out, on the website, in beautiful copy. Basically, the most polite fuck you. I love these people.

I was fully invested and the rest of the world dissolved into nothing. There was just me, my lady and a frosty beer.

Let’s get to the food already.

They have really bomb soosh. This was coconut shrimp crunch. Sounds like a southeast Asian breakfast cereal but incredibly tasty. Could have eaten more, will go back and have more.

The classic spicy mayonnaise and soy reduction sauce with a toothpick through it trick for the tuna, avocado, yada yada roll. Just fine. A little difficult to eat, if that matters.

I will always get a wedge if it is on a menu. It will be the first course of my death row final meal. This was just comme çi comme ça because they committed a deadly sin and used thousand island dressing instead of a full blue cheese which made me feel like I was in an alternate universe. I do have to say, however, these may have been the best croutons I have ever been privy to devour. Crunchy on the outside but soft on the inside, the way God intended. There is nothing worse than croutons that should be used in a driveway instead of a salad.

Easily the best crab cake I have ever eaten. How is that even possible? Well, most crab cakes are full of filler items such as vegetables and bread crumbs. This was entirely lump crab, perfect sear on the outside.

Coleslaw side for the crab cakes was also delicious. Would have preferred about a gallon of tartar sauce, but hey.

Burger time! We were stuffed at this point but I somehow found the gumption to hork this puppy down. Perfectly cooked, as you can see. That matters big time. I rarely receive a burger cooked the way I ask it to be. Lots of stuff piled in there. Pickles, peppers, some sort of green, a sauce or two. A true aficionado will tell you the burger magic gets lost when there are too many objects in the way of the grilled meat like a movie star surrounded by their entourage.

The fries were perfect. Someone at this place really pays attention to the food items that require the proper mouth feel. This is evident in the Zeus level sear on the crab cakes, the crunch of the double cooked fries, the incredible 10/10 croutons. Texture, folks. It makes up the fabric of the culinary universe. It defines the greats from the shoe makers.

Too full for dessert. Sorry peeps.

As we basked in the remainder of our freedom, Jo asked me to give South Beverly Grill a rating.

-Solid 8, I said.

-What? No way. 9.5.

-Listen, everything was great but I like places that take chances, even if those chances fail. You can rehash the same old tried and true formulas, and do them well, like here, but you will never earn more than an eight for something like that. Plus, they put goddam thousand island on the wedge. That’s fucking sacrilege. I will never forgive something like that.

South Beverly Grill is where you go to experience great comfort classics. The drinks menu personifies this. They are not trying to bring you a seasonal anything. This place is an escape and it is magic. It is about execution and being almost perfect. Almost. The biggest problem here is personality. There is none. Sometimes that is ok, sometimes not. Sometimes you want to date a boring hunk, sometimes a furry disheveled old curmudgeonly bastard with wit and a twinkle only for you in his squinty pirate eye.

Your AI generated image for this post, #429, 6/19/25